Ghost of the Vaudeville
by brockie
Summary: People said the theater was cursed, but then, people were always saying that theaters were cursed. In memory of Dominic, Kim, and Curls


Bumlets had always loved to sing, ever since he was small. He never told anyone this, of course; New York City just didn't care about a poor, singing newsboy.

His mother used to sing him to sleep every night, and sing to him when he woke up the next morning. Her voice was like that of an angel's, or at least, what he thought an angel's voice should sound like. It was beautiful and mesmerizing and magical. Her singing could take him away, anywhere he wanted to go. Away from the too much work and the too little food, away from the too little money and too much drinking, away from the false hopes and stupid dreams his father planted in his mother's head, to a place where they could be happy just being together.

But his mother was gone now and was no room in the world for teenage boys who missed their mothers' singing.

He found the back entrance to the Vaudeville theater like most newsboys did, one day when he was running from a few very agitated policemen and needed a place to disappear. He had no idea where he was when he first stepped inside. It was dark and musty and…quiet. Completely silent. He saw costumes and feather boas hanging from the walls and the rafters, but he couldn't believe this was the same noisy, crowded theater he routinely packed himself in every Friday night. It was only when he stepped foot onto the stage that it dawned on him that this really was the Vaudeville stage he knew and loved.

Bumlets had never been on stage. Even when Medda invited the boys to come up and sing with her, he had been too shy to join the crowd. And even if he hadn't been too shy, the other boys certainly would have had something to say about it. "Bumlets? On stage, singing? He doesn't even mouth the words!"

Yet, looking out at the sea of empty chairs and feeling the peace of being completely alone in an enormous theater, Bumlets felt like he was supposed to be there. He realized this must be one of the very few times the theater was closed and empty. No matinee this afternoon, and it was too early to start setting up the evening performance. He had the entire theater to himself.

So he started to sing. 'Amazing Grace'. One of the songs his mother used to sing to him, and one of the only songs he actually knew. He loved the way his voice bounced off every wall before disappearing and how it echoed. He imagined his mother was there, smiling at him from the center seat in the front row. Then he imagined he was singing for hundreds of people--an audience. He finished the song and started again. The people would clap and cheer for him, his mother, still in the front row, would be loudest of all.

When he let the final note fade away, Bumlets just stood for a moment, listening to the quiet. Until he realized someone was coming in the front doors. Someone was coming. With the quick reflexes every aged newsboy had, Bumlets bolted toward the stairs leading to the back door. He had just jumped down the last four steps when he heard a faint voice call out "Anyone here? Hello? Anyone?"

By the time the old man got to the back staircase, Bumlets was already selling papers on Main Street.

Bumlets didn't go back to the theater--at least, not when it was empty--for awhile after that. A little less than two months later, however, he found himself standing outside the same, slightly hidden back entrance. He found the theater miraculously once again deserted and this time climbed the narrow back staircase eagerly.

He started with 'Amazing Grace' again, since it always had been his favorite. When he had gone through all of the verses, he began his own rendition of Medda's 'High Times, Hard Times', and couldn't help but grin and the memories and mishaps that went with the song. He ended with a flourish and a dramatic pose and was about to begin what he knew of 'Seek Ye First' when he heard the main doors being opened. He slipped quietly behind the heavy curtains and disappeared down the stairs again, leaving the old Vaudeville caretaker completely baffled.

Bumlets came back to the stage the next day. He sang a dodgy version of 'All the Pretty Horses' as well as two more of Medda's songs before the old caretaker began opening the main entrance doors again and Bumlets had to disappear. The next day there was a matinee, but Bumlets came back the day after that. And the day after that too. He eventually learned the theater's show schedule so he would know when it would be empty.

He learned everything he could about the theater. He couldn't get enough. There were rumors and mysteries and superstitions that buzzed around the stage like bees did around honey. The leading lady in a production of Romeo and Juliet had nearly gotten crushed by a piece of the set. Two of the stage lights had fallen during a recent rehearsal, nearly taking out one of the actors, and scraping up the arm of another. And that was just in the past six months.

People said the theater was cursed, but then, people were always saying that theaters were cursed. There was also the rumor of the theater ghost. When the theater was supposed to be empty, there was the unmistakable sound of someone singing on the stage. The voice of an angel, some people said. The owner of the theater joked that this 'ghost' could make some good money as a performer, with talent like his. Whenever someone tried to catch the ghost, the moment the theater doors opened, the singing would stop. There wouldn't even be a rustle in the curtains.

_Maybe I'll catch the theater ghost,_ Bumlets thought to himself one day as he was sitting on the empty stage, _Maybe they'd give me money. Doubt it, though. It's probably just someone practicing alone in the theater. There's no such thing as ghosts._ He shook his head as he stood up and brushed off his pants. He looked around the empty theater, just admiring it for a moment.

He had thought about trying to get a job at the Vaudeville. Whatever they needed him to do. Run errands, sweep the theater, hand out playbills, he would do anything. But 'show business was tough', Medda would often tell the boys during performances. If a real job was held over their heads, someone was going to snap it up in an instant. He pushed the thought out of his head. There was no point in getting his hopes up. He was doing fine, just fine, right now. Bumlets knew he could make money as a newsie, and he was doing alright for himself. He started singing again.

The old caretaker opened the main entrance doors carefully and quietly. It was difficult, considering how old the doors were, but the singing still continued in the theater. He crept across the atrium and headed up the stairs to the balcony. As he got closer to the balcony entrance, the singing got clearer. It was definitely a male's voice, ghost or otherwise, the old man determined. He made his way through the doorway, keeping to the shadows. He moved closer to the edge of the balcony, to get a better look.

This was certainly no ghost. It was a boy, fairly young, by the look of it, one of the newsies the old man saw nearly every Friday during Medda's shows. His face was dirty and so were his clothes, but as the man got nearer to the banister, even from so far away he could see the light and life in the boy's eyes.

He wasn't sure what the boy was singing, he didn't think the boy himself knew either, but he didn't really care. He didn't exactly have the voice of an angel, like the rumors made it out to be, but there was something about it that made the old caretaker want to stop and listen instead of try to kick him out of the theater.

When the boy stopped singing, the man didn't say anything. Then the boy noticed the old man. They stared at each other for a few seconds, and when the old man blinked, the boy had gone. Disappeared into the safety of the heavy curtains, just like that.

"The ghost of the Vaudeville," the old man murmured, "Who would have thought,"


End file.
